Chapter 6: Training Begins
POV: Scott McCall
The abandoned warehouse smelled like rust, old concrete, and something that might have been death if Scott let his imagination run wild. Derek had chosen it for their training sessions because it was isolated, soundproof, and already damaged enough that additional destruction wouldn't be noticed.
"Perfect place for a teenage werewolf to have a complete meltdown without traumatizing innocent bystanders."
"Again," Derek commanded, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. "And this time, try not to destroy the support beam."
Scott wiped sweat from his forehead, his muscles aching from two hours of control exercises that felt more like medieval torture. Every attempt to transform partially ended the same way—with power surging through him that felt too big for his body to contain, followed by Derek tackling him to prevent property damage.
"Maybe if he actually explained what I'm supposed to be doing instead of just yelling 'control' every five seconds."
"I'm trying," Scott said, rolling his shoulders to work out the kinks. "But every time I start to shift, it feels like I'm tapping into something massive. Like there's more power available than I know what to do with."
Derek studied him with the kind of intense focus that made Scott wonder if his mentor could see something he was missing.
"Show me your anchor."
"My what?"
"Your anchor. The thing that keeps you human when the wolf wants to take over. Every werewolf has one—a memory, a person, a feeling that grounds them during transformation."
Scott closed his eyes, reaching for the mental image that had been getting him through partial shifts. But instead of the usual technique Derek had taught him, his mind automatically went to the bond.
Stiles' laugh when he figured out a particularly complex research problem. Allison's smile when she hit a perfect bullseye. The feeling of completion that came when all three of them were together.
The moment he touched that connection, his transformation began.
But this time was different.
His eyes cycled through the impossible tri-color sequence—gold, purple, silver—as power flowed not just from his wolf nature but from the bond itself. He could feel Stiles across town, probably sitting in Deaton's clinic learning magical theory. Could sense Allison in her father's basement, practicing with weapons that sang when she touched them.
His claws extended smoothly, without the usual pain or struggle for control. His strength spiked to levels that made his previous transformations feel like warm-ups. And underneath it all, he felt the presence of his packmates lending him their own power—Stiles' magical energy, Allison's enhanced precision.
"This is what I'm supposed to feel like. This is what a real werewolf feels like."
Derek backed away, his expression shifting from training mode to something approaching alarm.
"Scott, your eyes. What are you anchoring to?"
"The bond. Stiles and Allison."
"Shit." Derek moved to put more distance between them. "That's not how anchors work. You're supposed to use something that keeps you human, not something that amplifies your supernatural nature."
"But it feels right. It feels like this is how I'm supposed to be."
"That's the problem."
Derek's phone buzzed with an incoming call, and he glanced at the screen with a frown.
"Deaton. Yeah, I know. Scott's doing it too. No, I can't get him to stop." A pause. "How bad is Stiles?"
"What's wrong with Stiles?"
Scott retracted his claws and forced his eyes back to normal, though the power continued to hum beneath his skin like electricity looking for an outlet.
"Derek, what's happening with Stiles?"
"According to Deaton, your friend just levitated half the contents of the clinic without meaning to. Apparently, when you tap into the bond for your transformations, it triggers sympathetic responses in both of them."
"Great. So I can't even train without accidentally causing supernatural chaos across town."
Derek ended his call and turned back to Scott with the kind of expression that suggested their training session was about to become much more complicated.
"We need to try a different approach. Standard werewolf techniques aren't going to work for you because you're not a standard werewolf."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that your wolf is fundamentally connected to two other people, one of whom isn't even supernatural in any traditional sense. When you transform, you're not just accessing your own power—you're accessing theirs as well."
Scott sat down heavily on a pile of old shipping pallets, the weight of Derek's words settling over him like a lead blanket.
"So I can't learn to control this thing because controlling it requires controlling them too? That's not fair to any of us."
"There has to be a way," Scott said. "Previous Triads figured it out, right?"
"Previous Triads had different circumstances. Different power levels. Different..." Derek paused, choosing his words carefully. "Different outcomes."
"He knows something he's not telling me. Something about how Triads usually end up."
"Derek, what aren't you saying?"
His mentor was quiet for a long moment, staring out the warehouse's broken windows at the forest beyond.
"I'm saying that most Triads either learn to function as a unit, or they destroy themselves trying to maintain individual control. There's not a lot of middle ground."
POV: Stiles Stilinski
"Center yourself," Deaton said for the fifteenth time in an hour, his voice maintaining the kind of patience that suggested supernatural reserves of calm. "Magic requires focus, intention, and control. Feel the energy, don't force it."
Stiles sat cross-legged on the clinic floor, surrounded by candles and crystals and various herbs that smelled like a head shop had exploded. His hands rested on his knees in what was supposed to be a meditative position, but mostly felt like an excuse for his legs to fall asleep.
"Feel the energy. Right. Because that's super helpful instruction for someone who's never done magic before and has no idea what energy is supposed to feel like."
"I don't think I'm doing this right," Stiles said, opening his eyes to find Deaton watching him with the expression of someone trying to teach calculus to a goldfish.
"What are you experiencing?"
"Nothing. A whole lot of nothing. Maybe some mild indigestion from that gas station burrito I had for lunch, but definitely no magical energy flowing through my mystical chakras or whatever."
Deaton sighed. "Perhaps we should try a more practical approach. Focus on something you want to happen. Something small and specific."
Stiles looked around the clinic, his gaze settling on a pen that had rolled under one of the examination tables.
"Fine. I want that pen to move. Simple enough, right?"
He stared at the pen with the kind of intensity usually reserved for final exams, willing it to slide across the floor. Concentrating. Centering. Feeling for energy that stubbornly refused to manifest.
Nothing happened.
"This is stupid," Stiles muttered, his frustration spiking. "I'm not magical. I'm just a hyperactive teenager with ADHD and an internet addiction."
The moment the words left his mouth, every piece of electronic equipment in the clinic surged to life simultaneously. Computer monitors blazed bright enough to hurt his eyes. The coffee maker started brewing a fresh pot despite being unplugged. His phone began playing music at full volume while the battery indicator jumped from thirty percent to one hundred percent.
And the pen slid out from under the examination table, rolled across the floor, and came to rest at Stiles' feet.
"Holy shit. I did that. I actually did that."
"Interesting," Deaton said mildly, as if supernatural electronics malfunctions were a normal Tuesday afternoon occurrence. "It seems your magic is primarily reactive and emotional rather than controlled and intentional."
"Is that bad?"
"It's unusual. Most magical practitioners learn to channel energy through focus and discipline. Your power appears to manifest through frustration and spontaneous will."
Stiles looked at his hands, which were still tingling with residual energy.
"So basically, I'm a magical disaster waiting to happen. Perfect."
"Try again," Deaton suggested. "But this time, don't try to control anything. Just let yourself feel frustrated."
"That's literally the worst magical advice I've ever heard."
"Humor me."
Stiles closed his eyes and thought about the things that had been driving him crazy lately. The bond he couldn't explain. The dreams that felt more like memories. The growing sense that his life had fundamentally changed in ways he didn't understand and couldn't control.
Magic flared around him like invisible fire.
The clinic's lights began strobing in rhythm with his heartbeat. Books fell open to random pages. The ancient texts Deaton had spread across the examination tables started flipping through themselves as if searching for specific information.
And in the midst of the chaos, Stiles felt something settle into place in his chest. Not control, exactly, but recognition. This was his power—chaotic, emotional, utterly reactive to his mental state.
"I'm never going to be the kind of magician who sits around chanting in Latin and drawing perfect circles. I'm going to be the kind who accidentally sets things on fire when I get excited."
"Better," Deaton said, though he was having to raise his voice over the sound of machinery that had spontaneously activated. "Much better. Now see if you can tone it down without suppressing it entirely."
Stiles took a deep breath and tried to pull the energy back, not eliminating it but reducing its intensity. The electronic chaos gradually subsided, leaving only a gentle hum of power that felt like background music in his bones.
"How was that?"
"Like trying to teach a hurricane to blow in straight lines," Deaton replied. "But we're making progress."
Before Stiles could respond, his phone rang. Scott's name appeared on the screen, along with a message that made his stomach drop.
"Derek says you're having magical episodes. Are you okay?"
Stiles typed back: define okay
are you accidentally destroying stuff?
only the electronic equipment in a three-block radius
yeah, that's what I thought. we need to talk tonight
meet at the clearing?
definitely
Stiles looked up to find Deaton watching him with an expression of amused resignation.
"Magical synchronization through the bond," Deaton explained before Stiles could ask. "When one of you accesses significant power, it triggers sympathetic responses in the others."
"So every time Scott transforms, I'm going to accidentally levitate furniture? This is going to be a long adolescence."
POV: Allison Argent
The basement of the Argent house looked like a military armory had mated with a medieval weapons collection and produced something that belonged in a museum of warfare. Crossbows lined the walls alongside modern firearms, while display cases held arrows tipped with everything from silver to wolfsbane to substances Allison couldn't identify but suspected were supernatural in origin.
"Dad's hobby is way more intense than I ever realized."
Chris Argent moved through the space with the familiarity of someone who'd spent years perfecting the art of killing things that weren't entirely human. He selected a compound bow from the wall with casual expertise, testing its draw weight with the kind of muscle memory that spoke of thousands of hours of practice.
"How's your form been lately?" he asked, offering her the bow.
"Fine, I think. Haven't had much chance to practice since we moved."
"Since we moved. Again. For mysterious reasons that Dad still hasn't explained and probably never will."
Chris set up a target at the far end of the basement—fifty yards away, which should have been challenging for someone Allison's age and experience level. The bullseye was smaller than a dinner plate, positioned at a height that would require precise elevation adjustment.
"Take your time," Chris said. "Focus on your breathing, your stance, your draw. Make every shot count."
Allison nocked an arrow and drew back the bowstring, falling into the familiar rhythm that had been comforting her since childhood. Archery was the one constant in their nomadic lifestyle—no matter which town they landed in, she could always find a bow and a target and the meditative silence that came with perfect focus.
She released.
The arrow split the target dead center with an impact that buried the broadhead completely in the backing material.
"Good shot. Not perfect, but good."
"Again," Chris said, his voice carrying the tone of someone evaluating rather than simply observing.
The second arrow hit exactly one inch to the right of the first, forming a tight grouping that any archer would be proud of. The third arrow split the difference between them, creating a cluster that could be covered by a quarter.
But as Allison continued shooting, something began to feel different. Her movements became more fluid, more precise. Her awareness of the target sharpened until she could see individual fibers in the backing material. And when she drew the bowstring, her enhanced strength made the compound bow feel like a child's toy.
The fourth arrow didn't just hit the bullseye—it split the second arrow down the middle like something out of a Robin Hood movie.
"That's not normal. That's definitely not normal."
"Allison." Chris's voice carried a note of concern that made her lower the bow immediately. "How did that feel?"
"Different. Easier. Like the bow was extension of my body instead of just a tool."
"Show me your hand."
She extended her drawing hand, confused by the request. Chris examined her fingers with the kind of attention he usually reserved for weapons maintenance, noting the absence of strain marks that should have been present after drawing a sixty-pound bow repeatedly.
"You're not even winded," he observed.
"Should I be?"
"Allison, you've been shooting for forty-five minutes with a bow that most adult men would struggle to draw more than a dozen times. And your accuracy is..." He gestured at the target, where her arrows formed patterns that belonged in professional archery competitions.
"Oh. Oh shit. The bond. It's making me stronger, more precise. Dad's noticing that I'm developing abilities that normal humans shouldn't have."
"Dad, I can explain—"
"Can you?" Chris moved to a different weapons cabinet, withdrawing what looked like a small crossbow pistol. "Because I've been watching you closely since we arrived in Beacon Hills, and you've been changing. Moving differently. Reacting to things you shouldn't be able to sense."
He handed her the crossbow, which felt perfectly balanced despite being a weapon she'd never touched before.
"The target at seventy-five yards. One shot."
Allison raised the crossbow without hesitation, her enhanced vision automatically calculating distance, wind resistance, and trajectory. The bolt flew true, striking the distant target with an impact that sent it spinning on its stand.
"I didn't even aim consciously. My body just knew how to make the shot."
"Jesus," Chris whispered. "Allison, what's happening to you?"
The question carried weight beyond simple paternal concern. Chris Argent was asking because he suspected the answer, and that answer would require him to make choices he'd probably been dreading.
"Tell him the truth. He deserves to know. But what if knowing puts him in danger? What if the Argent family has rules about supernatural children that don't include exceptions for daughters?"
"Dad, how much do you know about supernatural creatures?"
Chris went very still.
"Why are you asking?"
"Because I think I might be becoming one. And I need to know if that's going to be a problem for us."
The silence that followed stretched long enough for Allison to hear her own heartbeat echoing in her enhanced hearing. Chris set down the crossbow he'd been holding and turned to face her fully.
"The Argent family," he said carefully, "has been hunters for over four hundred years. We hunt those who hunt us. We protect people from supernatural threats."
"Hunters. Oh God, Dad hunts supernatural creatures for a living. And now his daughter is becoming one."
"But," Chris continued, "we also follow a code. We don't harm innocents. We don't kill without cause. And we certainly don't kill family."
"Even if family becomes the thing you're supposed to hunt?"
Chris reached out and took her hand, his calloused fingers gentle against her scarred palm.
"Especially then."
The relief that flooded through Allison was so intense she had to sit down. She'd been terrified that learning the truth would cost her the only stable relationship in her nomadic life, but Chris was choosing her over centuries of family tradition without hesitation.
"He loves me more than he loves the code. That's... that's not something I was sure about until right now."
"There's something else you should know," Chris said. "About why we moved to Beacon Hills. About the photograph you saw on my desk."
He moved to a filing cabinet and withdrew the picture that had been haunting her—three children at summer camp, their faces blurry but their location unmistakably the Beacon Hills Preserve.
"You were here before, eight years ago. You, and two boys named Scott McCall and Stiles Stilinski. And something happened that summer that changed all three of you."
"He knows. He's always known about the bond, about the ritual, about everything."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I was hoping it would stay dormant. That you could live a normal life without ever knowing what you really are." Chris looked at the photograph with something that might have been regret. "But the supernatural world doesn't let people stay ignorant forever."
POV: Scott McCall
The Nemeton clearing at sunset felt different than it had during their desperate reunion days earlier. The ancient tree stump seemed more alive somehow, responding to their presence with subtle changes in the way shadows fell and the way the evening breeze moved through the surrounding forest.
"It knows we're here. It knows we're starting to understand what we are."
Scott arrived first, his enhanced hearing having caught the sound of approaching footsteps while his friends were still minutes away through the forest. But when Stiles and Allison emerged from the tree line, he could sense the changes in them immediately.
Stiles moved with a new kind of awareness, his usual manic energy tempered by something that felt like controlled power. Electronic devices in his backpack hummed with sympathetic energy, and when he gestured while talking, the air around his hands shimmered slightly.
Allison's transformation was even more dramatic. She moved with the fluid grace of someone whose body had been fundamentally upgraded, and when she smiled at Scott, her enhanced senses were clearly tracking details that normal humans would miss.
"We're all different. The training didn't just teach us to control our abilities—it awakened new levels of power."
"How did it go with Derek?" Stiles asked, settling onto the grass near the tree stump.
"Complicated. Turns out standard werewolf training doesn't work when your wolf is mystically connected to two other people. Every time I transform, I'm apparently triggering magical outbursts and supernatural enhancements across town."
"Yeah, I noticed." Stiles held up his phone, which was displaying a battery level that defied physics. "Deaton says I levitated half his clinic without meaning to."
"And I may have convinced my father that I'm developing abilities that transcend human limitations," Allison added. "Which led to some very interesting conversations about family history and supernatural hunting traditions."
"Wait, hunting traditions?"
"Your dad hunts supernatural creatures?" Scott asked, trying to keep the alarm out of his voice.
"Hunted. Past tense. And only the ones that threatened innocent people." Allison's smile was reassuring but tinged with complexity. "He's choosing family over tradition. But Scott, there are things about my family that you need to know."
Before she could elaborate, the Nemeton began to glow.
Not bright enough to be seen from a distance, but a soft pulse of light that seemed to emanate from deep within the ancient wood. The moment it started, all three of them felt the bond strengthen perceptibly.
"It's reacting to us being together. To us accepting what we are."
"Okay," Stiles said, staring at the glowing tree stump. "That's new."
Scott approached the Nemeton slowly, extending his hand toward its weathered surface. The moment his skin made contact, power rushed through him—not just his own werewolf nature, but magical energy from Stiles and enhanced precision from Allison.
His eyes began to glow, but not in the gold of a normal werewolf. Purple light flickered in his irises—Stiles' magical signature bleeding through the bond.
"I'm channeling his power. Actually using his magic."
"My turn," Stiles said, placing his hand next to Scott's.
Magical energy crackled around Stiles' fingers, but it was more controlled than Scott had ever seen it. The chaotic outbursts that had characterized his earlier training were replaced by something that felt purposeful and directed. And when Stiles looked at Scott, his eyes held flecks of gold that definitely hadn't been there before.
"He's accessing my werewolf nature. Somehow the bond is letting us share abilities."
Allison joined them at the tree, her hand completing the triangle they'd formed as children. The moment her skin touched the Nemeton, her eyes flashed silver and the entire clearing filled with harmonized power.
Scott could feel his werewolf strength amplified by magical energy and supernatural precision. Stiles' magic became focused and controlled through werewolf instinct. Allison's enhanced abilities gained mystical augmentation that made her movements blur with speed.
"This is what we're supposed to be. Not three separate people with individual powers, but one entity with three expressions."
"We're not just connected," Allison whispered, her voice carrying harmonics that suggested all three of them speaking in unison. "We're becoming something new."
As the sun set completely and the Nemeton's glow intensified, Scott felt the last of his resistance to the bond slip away. Whatever they were becoming, they were becoming it together.
And for the first time since this all began, that didn't feel terrifying. It felt right.
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